


Targaryen, they call him now.

by onborrowedwings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onborrowedwings/pseuds/onborrowedwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon, after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Targaryen, they call him now.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm meant to be writing other things, but this popped into my head and refused to leave. Jon, for once, and what might be for him one day. It's a well accepted concept in the fandom that he's Lyanna and Rhaegar's child, and that one day he might rule the Seven Kingdoms as either the heir or Danaerys's consort. But what if that was never what Jon wanted?

Targaryen, they call him now.

As much as Jon had always longed for a father’s name, to shed the one that marked him as a bastard, he finds now that he would prefer to have never been granted his wish.

Targaryen, they call him now, when all he’d ever wanted to be was a Stark.

They call him other things too, Azor Ahai reborn, the savior of mankind. Jon wants none of that either.

He would give anything to hear Ygritte say just one more time, “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” rather than to have people hanging on his every word, agreeing to everything that he says. She had been right, at that time he really hadn't known anything and he wishes that he'd never learned.

Jon wishes he were back on the Wall again, surrounded by his Brothers, where he at least felt as if he belonged, where he had earned his place.

But there is no Wall anymore, only a skeleton of it that is being slowly rebuilt, and no need for it either. No vows to uphold when the ancient enemy has finally been defeated. No more watch to keep. No more need to freeze in the northern wilds, huddled in his furs.

They give him only silks here in King’s Landing, and he asks for them all to be dyed black even as his aunt frowns at it, as if somehow it shows that he is ungrateful.

He is ungrateful. He never asked for this, never wanted it, doesn’t want it now.

It wasn’t King’s Landing that he dreamed of on cold nights up North, his breath frosting in the air while he listened to his trueborn brothers’ soft snores.

It was Winterfell. Always Winterfell.

He hadn’t dreamed of being the Lord, not really. Only a child’s foolish dreams, which went away quickly along with his childhood. Bastards grow up faster than other children after all. No, what he’d dreamed of was of being asked to sit at the high table when guests came to visit, of being master of a small holdfast, of being his brother’s loyal bannerman.

What he’d dreamed of was belonging, of being a member of the pack, of being a Stark.

They’ve made him into a Targaryen instead.

The war is over and his little brother Rickon sits on Winterfell’s High Seat now, no more than a child, a wildling who cannot be controlled by all accounts. Rickon’s advisors and protectors send Jon ravens with messages of despair, asking what might be done to tame the child.  


Jon counsels patience and understanding and wishes he might be there instead of them. He would understand his little brother, he who has seen so much of the wild and of despair himself.

Of his sisters there has been no news. Jon is grateful that at least the story of Arya being married to Ramsey Bolton was a lie. He likes to think that perhaps she and Sansa have both survived, and will one day make their way back.

Bran has not returned, and perhaps never will. Jon knows that he is beyond the Wall, but not precisely where. He dreams sometimes, of a three eyed crow, of a tree with Bran’s face. He dreams and knows that his brother has chosen another path, has found his own place to belong. When he ventures to the godswood in King’s Landing the leaves rustle above him and he seems to hear Bran’s voice in them.

The godswood is the only place in King’s Landing that Ghost actually likes, the only place that he feels at home. The direwolf is as much out of place in the South as Jon himself is, regarded with almost universal fear by those who reside in the castle despite his role in saving them all. Jon considers freeing Ghost, sending back up North to Winterfell where he might be with his brother, Shaggy. Yet he cannot make himself let go of this last connection, this last friend, this last proof that he is of the North; that the symbol of House Stark answers to his call.

His aunt, Daenerys, mother of dragons, does not understand his reluctance to rule. All of her life she had longed for Westeros, for home, for justice, and to reclaim the throne of her ancestors. To her, being a Targaryen is the greatest honour that anybody could wish for. She is younger to him by a year yet chides him like an elder, speaking of his importance to the realm.

Jon knows what role he is destined for, that of consort. It may be common to Targaryens, but his Stark blood rebels at it, at the very idea of wedding his aunt. She is lovely but he… he is not the man she wishes him to be.

Jon chafes at the expectations placed on him, he chafes even in all his fine silks now that Summer has arrived in King’s Landing. He avoids official duties and the eyes upon him as often as he may, choosing to ride out with Ghost whenever he can, into the Kingswood where the direwolf may hunt.

Yet there is no true escape now for Jon, because after all he has been named a Targaryen, with all the responsibility that comes with it.

When a note mysteriously arrives in his quarters, asking him to venture out to the Kingswood the next day for a meeting, he does not hesitate.  


Let it bring danger or let it bring death, let it bring anything other than this existence he currently leads.

He takes Ghost and rides out at the appointed hour, wondering how he will find the sender of the note in the expanses of the forest. Yet he does not need to - Ghost, catching a scent, follows it eagerly – bounding ahead and leaving Jon helpless to do anything but follow.

He reaches a clearing where the direwolf stands - facing three strangers but completely at ease, displaying no sign of wariness. It is only when one of the party lowers their hood that Jon finally understands.

“Sansa,” he whispers, barely able to believe it, and dismounts from his horse, quickly striding towards her. She is older, her face more lined with sorrow than he remembers and her hair dyed brown, strands of red only now starting to peek through.

“Jon,” Sansa whispers joyfully and then takes a step towards him before she turns back to those who wait and reaches out a hand to the smallest member of the party, beckoning them forward.

“It’s Jon, Arya. See, your big brother. Our family.” The smaller girl reaches up to pull down her own hood and Jon lets out a mangled cry of amazement because it really is his little sister, Arya, whose hair he used to muss, whose sentences he used to finish.

“Jon,” Arya murmurs, looking towards him with a strangely blank expression, only a slight spark in her eyes. “A girl used to know a boy named Jon, he used to be her brother.”

Jon stares, unsure of what his little sister means, of what has happened to her, but behind Arya and above her head, Sansa gives a reassuring nod.

“That is right, Arya.” She tells the girl, “You did used to know Jon, and he is still your brother even now.”

“Sansa…” Jon starts to say, lost and unsure and just wanting to embrace both of them now that they are back with him. “Sansa what happened to the two of you? Where were you all this time?”

Sansa glances at Arya, and then behind her to the only figure who still wears a hood, a massive form that towers over all of them.

“Could you please look after Arya for a moment?” she requests softly, “I would speak with Jon.”

“As you wish, little bird.” the large hooded man rasps, stepping forward to place a hand on Arya’s shoulder and leading her away, Sansa watching them go until they are at a safe distance.

“Oh Jon,” she sighs then, “There is so much to tell you and so little time. We have all been parted for far too long and in that time I fear that Arya has seen the worst of it, so much of death and suffering that she chose to give up herself to survive it. But you, Jon, I believe that you can bring her back. Of all of us, she always loved you the most.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help Arya,” Jon pledges earnestly, reaching out for Sansa’s hand. “Come back with me to the Red Keep, whatever she needs…”

Sansa shakes her head then, vehemently. “Not the Red Keep. Never. None us will ever go back there. It is... there is too much... None of us will do well in that place and it will not help Arya to heal. Starks do not belong here in the South. Nothing good has ever come of it for any of us. You need to come North with us, Jon, we need to take her home.”

"North..." Jon breathes, almost able to feel the embrace of the cold against his face at the very idea of it. Yet he forces himself to dismiss the idea, to put it aside even as his heart breaks. "Sansa, I can't... I have responsibilities here, I can't just leave."

"Not even for your most beloved sister?" Sansa asks him, her eyes flashing. "You were her favourite brother, Jon. If anyone can bring her back then you can. The only other brother we have left now is Rickon, and he is just a child."

Jon shakes his head sadly, looking behind Sansa to where Arya stands with the large hooded man.

"But I'm not her brother, nor yours, not truly." he reminds Sansa. "Lord Eddard was never my father, he only claimed me in order to keep me safe because he promised my mother he would."

Never his son, never. All those years of hoping, of wanting to make his father proud, of honouring his memory, and they took that from him too. "I am a Targaryen now, and I am expected to be here."

"And do you feel a Targaryen?" Sansa asks him, her eyes flashing with anger. "Is it Fire and Blood that you now claim, or when you think of your words, is it Winter that you first remember?"

"I... It is not that simple, Sansa."

"Nothing ever is." Sansa tells him matter of factly. "But I tell you now Jon, that no matter what names we might be called by, we are all Starks, and we belong in the North."

"You don't understand, Sansa, I was a bastard my entire life and then they made me into a Targaryen..."

"And they made me into a Lannister!" Sansa bites back, anger dripping from every word. "Do you think that I accepted it, even for a moment? And when I escaped from that, they made me into a bastard instead, but even that didn't change who I was. I knew it, deep inside, always. After all the names we have had, it is important to know which is real. You are not a Targaryen, Jon, not in your heart. You are a Stark, as we are."

She stops, nods at Ghost where he sits at Jon's side. "It is a direwolf that sits at your side even now, Jon, and not a dragon. Your father might have been a Targaryen but it is your mother's blood which runs more strongly through your veins, and no matter who sired you, it was Eddard Stark who raised you, who loved you as deeply as he did any trueborn son of his."

She stops, breathing in deeply to calm herself and looks over at Arya then. "There is your sister, Jon, and after everything that was done to her, she has forgotten even her own name. Will you not help her remember? Will you not stand by us, will you not take your place as our brother?"

Jon thinks of his aunt, lovely but distant, and unable to understand his reluctance to take what she sees as his birthright. He thinks of the Red Keep and the way that Ghost paces within its walls, caged just as he is. He thinks of all his silks, dyed black in an effort to make him feel more at home.

No matter what name they have given him, he will never truly feel like a Targaryen, he does not wish to either.

It is the blood of the First Men that runs through his veins, the blood of his willful mother in whom the wolf was too strong.

Jon knows which words come to his mind most readily, and it is not Fire and Blood that he lives by.

Jon knows what he truly is, has always known, even as they tried to convince him otherwise.

"We will leave in the morning." He tells Sansa, and she smiles, her eyes filling with tears, for she knows that he has finally chosen his name.

She laughs and throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly and Jon hugs her back before crossing to Arya, laying a hand upon her shoulder.

"We're going home, little sister." He tells her, and reaches out to muss her hair.

"Home." Arya murmurs, as if she's forgotten the meaning of the word.

"About buggering time too, the sooner we're away from here the better." his sisters' large companion rasps, finally pulling down his own hood, and Jon stares.

"And how is it that you are with my sisters?" Jon asks Sandor Clegane, scarcely able to believe his eyes, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. It has been years since he saw the man at Winterfell, years since he heard he was dead, and Jon cannot think of a single reason why he might be with Sansa and Arya, here and now.

"We will leave that story for another day." Sansa breaks in, placing her hand on top of Jon’s where it sits on his sword hilt to stop him. "For now all you need to know is that he has been a true ally in our time of need, and that he will be going with us."

Clegane glances briefly at her as she says it, and there is something painful in his gaze before he looks away. Ygritte might have always delighted in telling Jon that he knew nothing, but Jon thinks he understands now, well enough.

Daenerys is another matter, she was not raised for understanding and the mother of dragons does not like to be told no. They argue over it until the small hours of the morning, as Jon strives to convince her that in Winterfell he might be her Warden of the North, at least until his brother is old enough to truly inherit the title.

She is not convinced, is unhappy, might never forgive him for it, but he will still be leaving in the morning.

Jon is both Stark and Targaryen after all, even if he only wishes to claim one of those names. He has both fire and ice running through his blood and a strength of will that is difficult to match.

And so the next morning he joins his sisters and their strange companion where he had left them the night before, Ghost padding alongside his horse, stepping forward to sniff at the girls and Sandor Clegane before he returns to Jon.

“Let’s go home.” Jon tells them, a small smile on his face as he says it.

“Home.” Arya says, and then in a whisper. “Winterfell.”

Targaryen, they might call him now, but as he travels North, he is simply Jon, a beloved brother found again after many years, reunited with his blood. With every mile that they cross he begins to feel more himself.

Sansa tells him her stories slowly as they travel North, unraveling them like threads for him to follow. Arya is silent but Jon notices the way she holds the sword he gave her, as if it is the most precious thing in the entire world. She looks at him sometimes as if she recognizes him, recites memories sometimes as if they are not actually her own but something she has merely witnessed.

They reach the Trident and make camp for the night, Arya sitting silently by the fire while Sansa and Sandor Clegane see to the horses, speaking in low voices to one another. It is then that Ghost suddenly stands up, intent upon the shadows.

“What is it, Ghost?” Jon asks him, hoping that there is no trouble, but the direwolf is still, waiting.

It is a moment later that Arya stands, takes a step forward, even as a massive shape appears on the very edge of the light.

“Nymeria.” Arya says, and there is a light in her eyes that Jon has not seen since the time they met again.

The direwolf steps forward, padding towards Arya softly even as his little sister puts her hand out, touching it hesitatingly to the large muzzle. Sansa and Sandor Clegane turn towards the sight, wonder in Sansa’s eyes, the larger man’s hand upon her shoulder.

“Nymeria,” Arya says again, then throws her arms around the direwolf’s neck and begins to sob.

Jon knows then, that it will all truly be alright. That they are all of them on the way to reclaiming their true selves.

Targaryen, they call him in King’s Landing.

Jon knows that whatever name he might be called by, he always has been and always will be a Stark.

And he is going home.


End file.
